We All Drown Differently
by Chrmdpoet
Summary: "The black of the ink, the loops of the letters…their mere existence threatened Regina's composure; it threatened the strict design by which she kept herself pinned together. And her name, scribbled at the top of the first page, was her undoing." Emma leaves behind a single letter, filled with her sorrow and marked with Regina's name. ONE-SHOT. Trigger Warnings inside.


**TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide, Depression, Self-Loathing, Grief. This one-shot is HEAVY, and very angst-ridden. **

**Sometimes I let my mind wander too far, and this is what happens when I let pieces of my own experiences bleed heavily into my writing. Still, I hope you all won't hate me for the sadness of this piece. It's an important piece for me, cathartic—maybe it will be for some of you as well.**

**PLEASE read this to my chosen soundtrack of "Say Something" by A Great Big World ft. Christina Aguilera. XO-Chrmdpoet**

We All Drown Differently

The sun was abnormally bright, its rays melting through the black material of Regina's dress and itching at her skin. She cursed its heat, its mocking beam on a day when the clouds should have been billowing in over a rolling roar of thunder. She cursed the way it caused her palms to sweat, her hand uncomfortably dripping even as her son's hand gripped it so tightly she could feel her bones threatening to crumble.

She heard his soft cries, the way his breath hitched in a sharp gasp with every inhale and shook almost violently with every answering exhale. She heard Snow's heart-wrenching sobs that careened into aching moans toward their end. She heard David's sniffling as he held his wife tightly and shook his head back and forth as if still in a state of denial. She heard Archie speaking from a podium, though she paid no attention to the words.

The sounds crept into her, not only through her ears but through her pores. They crawled along her skin and into her cells like metastasizing cancer intent on devouring every vital part of her.

She resisted it, the way it made her feel. She resisted the compulsion to crack beneath the pressure of the sorrows flooding the atmosphere around her. She resisted the urge to join.

So, Regina merely bowed her head and let her eyes contemplate the various shades of green in the grass that day as she held her son's hand and wished it all would simply go away.

Go away.

Go away.

* * *

Snow's eyes were blue, so blue through the big drops that danced on her eyelids, as she very gently, too gently, rested a hand on Regina's elbow.

Regina said nothing, though that gentle touch strangely felt like fire. It felt like weight. It felt like all the things she would be unable to avoid forever.

Her footsteps felt uneven but she followed anyway, because maybe it was merely that the world seemed to have tilted somehow.

In that quiet corner, Snow's breathing was thunder. Her eyes were rain. Her soul was the storm that should have painted the sky that day, and Regina found herself drowning in it.

She swallowed thickly as the envelope slipped between her fingers.

"She wrote us a small note." Those words were earthquakes between Snow's teeth; chattering, chattering, chattering. "But she left this letter…f-for you."

The words held no bitterness. They held no hatred. They held nothing.

They were empty.

Regina swallowed again, because it seemed to be the only thing she could do anymore. She had a million questions, but she had no voice. A single word would have broken her.

A single word would have sent her over the edge.

So, she clutched the letter and she swallowed and she wished those blue, blue eyes would go away.

Go away.

Go away.

* * *

She held him the way she used to when he was smaller, and he _was_ so small in that moment that he almost seemed to fit in her arms again. She held him tightly. She held him fiercely.

She held him until the tremors stopped, until his breath came deep and left easy.

She held him until the tension leaked from his body, until his muscles relaxed and he uncoiled from the tight, trembling knot he had been against her chest and stomach.

She held him until the feeling left her, left her limbs and left her breathless; left her alone with her torpid thoughts and her tormented heart.

She held him, and she wished she could absorb his pain into her blood so that he would never know the many dreary and sometimes violent shades of despair. She wished she could leech away his sorrow so that he would never have to memorize the weight of it, the lilt of it. She wished she could make it go away.

Go away.

Go away.

* * *

Regina clutched the envelope until it crinkled. She doused it with anger and contemplated setting it ablaze.

She contemplated tearing it to shreds. She contemplated slipping it into a drawer and forgetting its existence.

She contemplated opening it.

Regina was so torn by its mere existence that she found herself unable to be in the same room with it. So, she left it on her bed, and she fled from it, from whatever words waited for her inside those paper walls.

She paced the hallway just outside her room. Her feet tapped out a rhythm that was staggered in her chest, and the two different melodies only made her sense of imbalance grow.

She hated the feeling. She loathed its ability to leave her entirely dismantled and utterly destroyed.

She hated not knowing.

* * *

Regina's breathing was quick and shallow as she slipped her index finger beneath the flap and ripped it slowly.

There was a fever on her flesh, a heat in her body as she struggled against the growing nausea in her gut with every fold she unraveled until her eyes met a loose and familiar scrawl of handwriting.

The black of the ink, the loops of the letters…their mere existence threatened Regina's composure; it threatened the strict design by which she kept herself pinned together.

But her name, scribbled at the top of the first page, was her undoing. It blasted into her and scattered her pins entirely, so that she was merely a cushion; bare and vulnerable to the striking pricks of that despair that was so achingly alive in her home and in her town and in the paper clutched between her trembling fingertips.

She closed her eyes against the sudden stinging. She loathed it. She loathed the tightness in her chest and the itch in her throat. She loathed the way her pulse slithered up her blood, up her body, and thrummed loudly in her ears and in her head.

She loathed this torture, this visual evidence of a goodbye that felt too thick for her tongue, too harsh for her heart.

She loathed the way her eyelids fluttered open again, the way her gaze was drawn to the ink once more.

She loathed that she had to read it.

She loathed that it had ever required being written at all.

* * *

_Regina,_

_ I hope you actually read this instead of just dropping it into a homemade handheld ball of fire just to spite me for what I've done._

_ I hope you actually read this, because I'm only writing one letter. This letter. And it's yours. _

_ I guess that might not make sense to you considering our relationship is so complicated, but we're friends. I know you hate that word because you never say it and you always scoff when I do, but I think maybe you just don't understand it, and that's okay. I don't really understand it either._

_ I've never had friends, not like what most people consider friends. I've met people. I've hung out with people. I've gone out with people and ate with people. I've laughed with people and cried with people, but does that make all those people my friends?_

_ Isn't a friend supposed to be someone you can bare your soul to or something like that? Someone who knows you in ways that no one else can or does? Someone who sees the parts of you that you never show because they have those parts too, those dark parts or those scary parts…the secret parts? _

_ Because if that's a friend, then yeah, Regina, that's you. You're the only one._

_ You know me, and not because we talk to each other about things. We've never really needed words, have we? We just get each other. Like I said, you know me. I think maybe you've always known me in a way that no one else ever could, and I think I've known you just the same._

_ Because in a lot of ways, we ARE the same. I think you know that._

_ And if you do, then please, just listen (or read, whatever) and try not to hate me. Try to understand, because if anyone can, I think it's you._

* * *

The first tear fell like a silent breath of denial.

It fell like the softest summer rain, slow and tender and hardly touching her flesh before it splashed gently atop the paper in her hands, smudging the 'R' in her inky name.

And the second?

The second tear came like lightning, a burning fury. It ripped right out of her, striking down her cheek and over her chin, before crashing, crashing, crashing.

It pulled the third with it, and the fourth, and the fifth.

They all came then, building as a tidal wave that began deep in her chest and grew and grew until it roared in her throat, choking and scratching; until it crashed atop her dark lashes and flooded down her face.

With every word, a new wave built and crashed and dissolved into her flesh, seeping away her anger, melting atop her grief…

* * *

_I'm not good at this. I'm not good at talking about my feelings, and I guess that's why I never did. I guess that's why I never could. _

_ Maybe I should have. Maybe it would've gotten better. Maybe then you wouldn't be reading this letter, or maybe things would've turned out exactly the same. I don't know. That's the point, really, isn't it? That none of us really knows._

_ People can say things a million different times in a million different ways. They can say things like, "It's never as bad as it seems," or "Everything happens for a reason," or "It gets better." But does anyone really know? And even those people who've actually lived it, those people who've actually been lucky enough to have things truly get better—even THOSE people can't look at your life and tell you that it will get better, not with certainty. _

_ No one can. There's no real way to know. _

_ That's the thing about hope, I guess. It's so different from pain. Hope is…it's transparent. You can see right through it, you know? You can see through it to the times when things will just get shitty again or fall apart again. _

_ And maybe that's why it's so hard to hold on to it. Maybe that's why it's so damn difficult to just look at whatever happy picture hope paints and say, "Yes, I can have that," or even "Yes, I WILL have that." There are just too many ways to pop holes in that picture until reality spills through it like a blinding light; until it's nothing. It's empty._

_ But pain? Pain is a completely different thing. It's not transparent at all. It's full._

_ It's black and muddy and so fucking thick that you can't even begin to see through it. You can't see past it, over it, under it, around it…beyond it. You can't._

_It's not something you can just look at, either. It's something you are wholly surrounded by, completely consumed by, and you can't even breathe inside it._

_ I guess I don't really have to tell you that. I guess you know. No, I know you know. _

_ Your life was a mess. Don't be mad at me for saying that. I don't mean it to be offensive; I mean it's not like I have much right to talk anyway. If my life wasn't a mess, you wouldn't be reading this letter right now. _

_ I just meant that I know you can understand to at least some extent where I'm coming from when I say that I feel like…I feel like I'm dying ALREADY, like there isn't really any point in trying to force the air in and out of my lungs when it just hurts to do so._

_ It hurts to breathe. It hurts to move. It hurts to speak._

_ Everything…it all hurts. It hurts all the time. It never stops._

* * *

The air was alive around her, a thrashing beast intent on consuming her, and Regina was helpless to its brutal advance.

She pressed the letter to her chest, pressed and pressed and pressed until she could feel the ink in her flesh and in her blood and in her bones.

She wanted the ink to seep into her soul and paint her all the colors of Emma's resolve and Emma's despair.

And the moment it was buried deep, so deep it could define her, she wanted to claw into her flesh and dig it out again.

She needed the pain in that moment, needed desperately to share it even if no amount of burden she bore would lift the weight from a spine that would never flex again, from a heart that would never beat again; from a life that lived now only in her memory.

* * *

_It's just IN me, you know? That darkness and that constant ache…it's IN me all the time and I can't get it out. _

_ I try to laugh and I try to smile and I try to just be normal, whatever that is, but I don't feel it. It never sinks beneath the surface. It never has._

_ When I was a kid, and god this just seems so fucking ironic given how my life turned out, but one of the houses I stayed in had a big, full-length mirror that hung on the bathroom door, and I used to sneak into the bathroom at night and just sit in front of that mirror. _

_ And I would just stare at my reflection and try to figure out what was wrong with me, why I was never enough, why I always ended up alone. I would whisper those questions over and over, thinking maybe if I was prettier, maybe if I was better behaved, maybe if talked less, maybe if I talked more, maybe if was happier, maybe a million things…_

_ Then I'd be special enough that someone somewhere might want to keep me forever; might love me enough to want to have me around always. _

_ And please, please, don't think that this is me blaming you. I don't. I don't blame you at all, so please, don't feel guilty. I just want you to understand. I need for you, more than anyone, to understand._

_I've always carried my life with me, every moment of it._

_ That feeling of never being enough never really went away. I tried to numb it as I got older. I tried to just push it away and convince myself that I was happy, that I would be happy someday, but it was always there. It was always just under the surface, digging at all of my most sensitive spots, all my most vulnerable places._

_ And always, ALWAYS, I felt like this lost little girl. I still feel that way. I feel that way every day, like the girl that no one has ever or will ever really want—not in that forever kind of way._

_ God, I don't know. Maybe, at some point, it stopped being about other people, and it started being about me. Maybe, at some point, I stopped wanting myself. I stopped caring about myself. I stopped loving myself._

_ Maybe I never did, or maybe it happened when I realized that I spent more days waking up and wishing that I hadn't than being happy that I had, you know? _

_ I don't know if there's a god, Regina. Hell, I don't know so many things. But what I do know is that sometimes I just lay in bed at night and I pray so hard. I pray so hard that if there IS a god, could he…she…just take me in my sleep. Could I just drift away, drift away from all this pain and all this darkness and all this…shit?_

_ It's funny, you know? So many people think that there's something really poetic and touching about pain, and yeah, maybe a lot of really great art has stemmed from it, but that's where that beauty and that poetry end._

_ Because the actual pain? It's not beautiful. It's not touching. It's not poetic. It's just fucking pain. It just fucking hurts. _

_ And there's nothing beautiful about that. There's nothing beautiful about this feeling, like I can't get my head above water, like I can't get to the air. And maybe you think that makes me weak. Maybe you think it just means I should have tried harder, should have kicked and thrashed and demanded that life-saving breath._

_ But maybe your shallow end is my ocean. We all drown differently, you know…_

* * *

Regina's shoulders quaked, her body rocking against the shifting tides of her emotions. She knew them each and all in that moment, felt them each fully and fiercely.

It was a strange sensation, one she was not unfamiliar with, and yet it never grew easier to bear or to understand—that illogical mixture of anger and affection, of grief and gratitude.

She had never quite understood it, and yet she knew its taste and knew its texture.

She had never forgotten.

And she never would.

* * *

_Sometimes, I just want to tear my heart out. Can you understand that? I mean I know you actually used to tear people's hearts literally right out of their chests, but did you ever want to tear your own heart out? Just because you thought that maybe that would make it stop…all that noise in your head, all those voices telling you that you'll never be good enough, you'll never have those things that other people have—love, friendship, companionship, joy, inner beauty, outer beauty, respect, kindness…answers? _

_ You have those voices, too, right?_

_ If it's any consolation, I'm glad you didn't. I'm glad I got to know you, even if it was fleeting. _

_ And I guess that's where this gets kind of messy. It's where things get both very complicated and very simple, and maybe it's not fair for me to tell you these things. Maybe it's selfish of me to share all of this with you when you can't respond, but then there's a part of me that feels like maybe it would be more selfish to never share them at all. _

_ Because maybe, like me, you really need to know…that someone sees you._

_ I do. I see you._

_ And like I said, I'm not good at this talking about my feelings crap, but there are a few things I think you should know, and I hope I'm not the only one who ever tells you, but if I am, please know that I mean these words so much more than this paper or this ink is ever going to make you understand._

_ You are NOT evil. You are not a bad person. You are not irredeemable. _

_ You're just you, Regina, and yeah, you've got a lot of darkness, but so do I. I think maybe we all do in our own little ways. But your darkness doesn't make you terrible. It just makes you more, and that "more" is exactly what has always drawn me to you._

_ I'm more, too. That sounds so dumb in my head as I write it, but I hope you get what I mean. _

_ You're a great mother, the best really. Henry can be a shit sometimes, but all the best things about him are from you. _

_ That's why I know you'll help him through this; and Regina, please don't let him hate me. Don't let him think that I didn't love him, or that he wasn't enough, because the truth is that Henry is the only thing in my entire life that I have ever been proud of. Most of that is because of you, and I'm so thankful to you for that, but the fact that I made something so precious…ME, the fuck-up, the lost girl…the fact that I made him and I gave him his best chance; well, that's the best thing I've ever done. It's the one thing I managed not to screw up._

_ Please, make sure he knows I love him. I've always loved him. I always will._

_ I want you to know that you're beautiful. I'm sure a ton of people have told you that in your life, and I'm sure I won't be the last, but it's still important._

_ So, you're beautiful. Your eyes…you know sometimes they're like a million different shades of brown, which is funny because I used to always think that brown was brown, one simple shade, but no. You're eyes are so many different browns, all of them beautiful, and you always show your heart in them. Your hands…I know that seems stupid, that I notice your hands, but I do. I think they're beautiful, too—delicate but strong. That little scar above your top lip. I don't have a clue what that's from, but I like it. It's just another part of what makes you beautiful, what makes you more._

_ You're beautiful on the inside, too. There's so much more to you than people realize. There's so much that you have in you to give. I hope you will share it with someone someday, and I hope that that someone appreciates it. I hope that that someone realizes how fucking special it is, how special YOU are._

_ You're strong. So much stronger than me. You've probably experienced a lot worse shit than I have. You've probably been lower than me, darker than me. You've probably hurt more than me, deeper than me, harder than me, but you never gave up. _

_ Because you're a fighter. That much was obvious my first day in Storybrooke. You came at me with all you had, and you lit my entire life up with that fire inside you. You've been fighting your whole life. You fought for love. You fought for justice. You fought for vengeance. You fought for freedom. You fought for happiness. You're a fighter._

_ In a lot of ways, I am too. You know that._

_ But I also think…I think sometimes it's okay to just stop fighting, and maybe this isn't the way. Maybe this isn't the right way to wave the white flag, but it's the choice I've made._

_ And I'm so sorry if you think it's selfish. I'm sorry if you think it's terrible or wrong or…unforgivable. I'm truly sorry, and I make no excuses. It is what it is, I guess._

* * *

Regina's breaths were gasping sighs, her voice trapped within crippled sobs she stifled with a palm cupped over her quivering lips.

Her pain was muted against the wet flesh of her hand as her tears carved new paths atop it, but that blunt quiet never reached her heart. It never touched her depths.

Her insides were a screaming explosion, fissures crackling and rippling across her stone walls and tenderness even if on the outside she merely trembled.

She wanted to dive into the smeared ink beneath her fingers and feel the way those words felt on Emma's hands, in Emma's heart because this two-dimensional sincerity could never make her happy, could never be enough.

She wanted so many things, so many things she would never have; so many things she would now never hear or see or say.

But mostly, _mostly, _she wanted them for _her_.

* * *

_I just hope that someday you can forgive me. I hope that someday you can look back on the strange and unique and complicated and…beautiful…friendship that we have and you can be happy about it. _

_ You can remember me fondly._

_ You can hope that I'm okay wherever I am. (Is there a heaven? A Hell? Who knows...)_

_ You can miss me._

_ I hope you can miss me. _

_ Because even though you might think I'm someone who's weak and selfish and cowardly even, I'm also someone who loves you._

_ I love you, Regina._

_ I always have._

_I'm sorry I never said it out loud._

_ But that's the thing, isn't it? What could I have given you? All I have is me, and I'm so broken that I don't even know how the pieces go together anymore. _

_ I'm so lost that I don't think the roads will ever find their way back together, back to a place where I can see where I'm going. _

_ I'm so empty. I feel like this hollow shell with nothing but fragments floating around inside—fragments of who I used to be, who I could have been, who I never will be; fragments that will never make a whole._

_ I can't be fixed, and I wouldn't want you to waste your life trying._

_I just wanted you to know that you are loved._

_ But don't think that loving you wasn't worth sticking around for, because I think you know as well as I do that sometimes even the best things in life can't outweigh all the shitty things that came before or that come after, can't outweigh the pain; sometimes even the happiest moments aren't enough to silence the sadness._

_ And while I would have loved you…I wouldn't have done it well. I wouldn't have done it the way you deserve. _

_ I'm sorry._

_ I can't carry this weight anymore. I can't carry this pain._

_ But I will carry a picture of you in my mind and in my heart, you and Henry, wherever this journey takes me. _

_ And I hope you'll carry one of me with you as well._

_ Always,_

_ Emma_

* * *

The soaked sheet encasing her pillow felt cold against her cheek as Regina buried her face into the damp surface.

It absorbed her groans as it did her tears. It cushioned her cries as it did her face, and she clung to it as if her grip could give it a pulse and a body and breath.

As if her anguish could give it blue-green eyes and golden hair, fair flesh and a dimpled chin.

As if it could cling in return.

As if it were the one thing in that moment, the one person, that she wished would have stayed.


End file.
